Archive of Our Own

Two shattered windows. Rear window gone, smashed grille and dented bumpers. Blood everywhere. The Impala's a mess, and they aren't much better. Cas, unearthed by the clatter they made coming into the garage, blinks at them in confusion.

Dean stretches, carefully, then scrubs at his face, leaning hard into the vee between the car's roof and door. "Cas, buddy," he says, voice a low scrape. "Word of advice. Do not mess with a Nachzehrer around that time of the month, okay?"

Sam huffs a laugh, on his side of the car, ribs creaking. He hasn't quite worked up the strength to stand yet.

"So," Cas says, frowning at the bloody pair of them. "Not a milk run, then."

Sam smiles, tips his head back against the back of the seat. The garage lights are a little dimmer here, hidden by the solid roof of the car. "No, not so much," he manages, and his leg is a painful throb and he's cold and he wants to just go to sleep for a week, but Dean's moving, bringing Cas closer and mumbling something about Sam's stupid little deal, and just like that, it's going to be okay. Dean's hand closes over his shoulder and he closes his eyes. It's going to be okay, he thinks. On his shoulder, Dean's hand is warm and steady, and he reaches up and grasps it before it can disappear. He wants to say something—apologize, maybe, though he doesn't know for what—but before he can say anything there's an intake of breath, and then chilly fingers are touching his forehead and clean grace washes through him and, for a second, the only thing in his mind is light.

There's a rhythmic banging coming from somewhere under the car when Sam comes back into the garage the next morning.

"Oh, baby, don't do this to me," Dean's saying, and Sam would mock the coaxing croon of it if he weren't a little concerned, himself. It's been a while since the Impala was this beaten up.

He comes around to the hood to find only the bottom half of his brother sprawled over the concrete, the hips of his jeans smeared with grease and his legs spread wide, bracing. Sam nudges at one knee, disregarding the imagery there. "How's it going?"

Dean ignores him, of course. "Come on, sweetheart, come on—" and there's a clicky, wrenching sort of sound and then Dean slams one heel into floor. "That's right! Yeah, that's my good girl—" and Sam rolls his eyes, settles in for the long haul.

He doesn't spend much time here, really. No matter what Dean or their dad tried, Sam never managed to get interested in the mechanics of cars beyond the basics of an oil change or replacing a spark plug—but this is Dean's domain, and it's nice, kind of, to see the classic models gleaming with the special attention that has been paid to them, to bask in the sheer confidence he emits as he wrangles an engine into submission. It's calming, a little blast from the past, and Sam plops down onto one of the motorcycle partitions, props his tablet on his knee to read, lets the familiar racket Dean's making ease something deep in his bones.

It's a long time later when the tablet disappears from his hand. He startles into awareness to find Dean standing over him, a little sweaty and absolutely filthy with grease. He'd let Cas heal him as Sam demanded, so there are no bruises to mar the lines of his face, no distraction from that pretty grin, wide enough that the lines around his eyes etch deep. "You ready for this, Sammy?" Dean says, and Sam's already smiling back, getting to his feet and something bright rising in his chest when Dean slots himself into the driver's seat and turns the key and—there, yes, damn it, that gorgeous hungry purr rises up out of the open hood like every childhood memory Sam has, and Dean's whooping, shouting something over the roar of it, but Sam can hardly hear him. Dean's smiling at him, honest and open through the new windshield, and their car is running smooth and beautiful, and that's it, really. This is all Sam needs.

He's put to work after that, of course—"Now that the real work's done," Dean says, and Sam smacks him over the back of the head, no matter that it's true. They'd replaced the windshield in Twin Falls, after Dean noticed how much the highway wind was killing Sam's cut-up face, but there's still the new grille to install, cosmetic cleaning and waxing that even Sam can't screw up. He's buffing over one of the newly-repaired dents on the hood when there's a muffled what the, and then a thump from inside the car.

"What?" he says, more concerned with making sure the gleam of black paint is even so Dean won't feel the need to go over the whole thing again on his own, but there's no answer. He looks up to find Dean backing out of the rear door, staring down at something in his hands. Dean had told him about the hairpin, and the mysterious little-girl purse full of the pennies that had saved the day. He can't quite see what Dean's found now, though, and he stands up straight, easing the strain in his back from hunching over the hood, tries to get a better look, and then he realizes just what Dean is holding.

Piper's panties were tiny. Some kind of thong, maybe, maybe meant to be sexy, but to Sam they were just a flimsy twist of pussy-wet fabric that barely registered when he slid his fingers over them, when he rolled them down and off. It had been so dark, just the flickering lights of the roadhouse coming in through the windows, and he'd had his eyes closed half the time anyway.

Dangling from Dean's finger, he thinks they're maybe black, or a dark blue. A wave of little-brother embarrassment washes through him. He figures he's probably blushing—Dean's gotten him twice in a week, which he thinks may be some kind of record—but now is not the time to cop to embarrassment.

"Didn't think you were into souvenirs, Sammy," Dean says, finally, meeting his eyes with a little smirk.

"Dude," Sam manages. Dean's brows hitch up; not his best comeback. "You wanna stop fondling that? You want a souvenir, you can get your own."

He's already bent over the hood again, faux nonchalance settled firmly on his face, when he notices that Dean hasn't shot back and then, like an idiot, he realizes what he said.

He moves over to the other side of the hood, glancing up as he goes. Dean's frowning down at his hands, and just for a second he rubs the fabric between his fingers and Sam gets a blast of heat in his stomach so strong he crouches down on the other side of the car, pretending like he's focused on buffing the side panel so he can hide how his whole body has been overtaken by memory, because—yes, he knows now what he said, and yes, damn it, he remembers. He remembers.

"Had to dig them out from under the seat," Dean says, after a few seconds. "What, did you hide 'em so she'd have to leave them behind?"

He's teasing. It's just teasing, and Sam says, "Speaking from personal experience?"—lightly, like this isn't killing him. He stands back up as he slides the chamois up the solid angle of the driver's door, shakes his hair out of his eyes as casually as he can, but Dean's not even looking at him. He's still staring down, spreading the scrap of cotton between his hands—navy blue, Sam sees now, with a scalloped lace waistband—and even stretched out like that, they're so small. They won't fit, he wants to say, but he bites it back, clenching the chamois so tight a knuckle pops, because he can't—he hasn't allowed himself to say anything, not since then, and right now with turtle wax all over his hands is not the time to bring up the past.

Dean crumples the panties and tosses them onto the tool bench, where they land in a sad little ball next to the case of wrenches. "Well," he says, after a few seconds. "The fine for littering in my car is it's your turn for a beer run."

The little smirk he turns on Sam is genuine, at least so far as Sam can tell, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's expected to, but—

"Go on, get," Dean says, and Sam drops the chamois and goes, shaking his head and sighing so that he won't vocalize the questions he wants to ask, about do you wish and what if, because he can throw himself in front of a bullet but, for this, he's not even close to brave enough.

It's been so long, is the thing. Seven years, on Earth, and far, far more if Sam counts that time he does his best not to think about. He flops onto his back in his uncomfortable bed, stares up at the bare white ceiling in the dim of his room. The past has been surging back at him, lately, and he doesn't know what to do with it. What's dead is supposed to stay buried, he thinks, and then rolls his eyes at himself. They're Winchesters; where it counts, that saying has never held true. Their mom never died for real, held close in a trust from their dad to them; their dad and his choices hover over them still. And Sam's choices, what he did—

He can't get Dean's hands out of his head. Capable square palms, tanned strong fingers, and that little scrap of fabric caught in them, twisted restlessly around while Dean mocked Sam like he was supposed to, like an older brother should when he finds a girl's carelessly left-behind things, but it didn't ring true. Couldn't, not with what had been between them.

He scrubs his hands over his eyes, then flops onto his side, burying his face in his pillow. Seven years. So much has happened since then and he'd thought, he'd really thought, that he was done, that he could move on, and in a way he has, but—it's still right there, when he lets himself look for it. It never left.

When Sam was twenty-six, the most important thing in the world had been killing Lilith. He'd been furious, all the time, and the universe just kept giving him more reason for it: demons and angels piling up on every side to tell him he was a freak, his lover stringing him along with the cloying, heady power of her tainted blood, his powers developing too slowly to show them all what he was capable of. But the worst part, the worst part by far, was the way Dean looked at him. His beautiful, touched-by-grace brother, with that cracked-glass fragility in his face, staring at Sam like Sam couldn't be trusted. Didn't matter to Sam, at the time, that Dean was right.

But then. Even with everything they've seen and done, Sam still struggles to believe that it happened. That little interlude, after Sam destroyed Alistair (and how much he wished he'd been able to string it out, to really hurt the bastard like he'd hurt Dean)—what the hell had the angels been thinking, putting them somewhere where the rules didn't count, where everything that had been binding Sam to morality fell away and left only the basest nature of the two of them, raw and unaware of the danger they were in?

When they came back to themselves Sam had been ready to lock it away, down in an iron-clad box where he kept his memories of Jessica, of how it had felt before he knew Dean's soul was damned. He was focused; he could bear to live without it. So much for that. It wasn't a month before Dean rolled over onto his back, vulnerable and belly-up with those wide, terrified eyes, spreading for Sam like he'd die otherwise, and how was Sam supposed to resist that? What could he do, but reel Dean into the cage of his arms, cover his gasping mouth and close his eyes against what was coming?

The most important thing in the world had been killing Lilith. That never changed. Not even when Dean was under him, bared down to pretty silk and groaning as Sam filled him to the brim—not even after, when Dean asked, haltingly, what Sam was doing when he went out late at night, when he asked what Ruby was teaching him. The shame of ignoring that fear, of dismissing Dean as a fragile little victim instead of recognizing how staggeringly brave he'd been—that still wakes Sam up at night, sometimes.

Dean and Castiel finding out what Sam had been doing, Dean's look of shock when Sam met his eyes with a blooded mouth—sometimes that wakes Sam up, too. Not to mention how they'd fought, how Sam had beaten Dean so hard he hadn't gotten up, about to cry but also raging that Dean couldn't trust him to do what was necessary. The one point of pride he has, in the whole mess, is that when they'd left Dean there and Ruby had tried to seduce him again, when she'd offered up her meatsuit's cunt like it could ever be a replacement for what Sam had just lost—Sam hit her so hard that the body's neck snapped and she hit the ground, harder even than Dean had. At the time, he'd thought she was helping him toward justice, but she was also destroying his life and he knew it. But still, the most important thing in the world was killing Lilith. When he demanded it Ruby had stood up, healed the bones in her neck, led him to the final seal, and didn't touch him again. Not until it was too late, anyway, and together they killed her for it.

He wonders, sometimes, how it could have been different. If he'd been less blinded by old grief and had let the miracle of Dean's resurrection heal the gaping wound of his death. If he'd confessed everything one night when he had Dean in his arms, if he'd surrendered himself to Dean and Castiel's mercy. He'll never know, of course, but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it. He'd had three glorious months. He'd been powerful and dangerous and he'd had the most precious person in the universe at his side, willing to guard his back, willing to die for him all over again—and he'd fucked it up, had put all of humanity in peril and nearly lost his brother in the process. If he were less honest with himself, he'd blame destiny, but if there's anything Sam has learned it's that he doesn't need the assistance of fate to turn his life into a catastrophe.

With the Impala repaired, their little enforced vacation is over and they leave the bunker to Cas again, and hunting is like it's always been before, in all respects but one.

The Darkness looms and Sam's visions get clearer, more devastating. Cas staggers closer to being whole and wanders off into the world. Amara consumes souls and Sam watches how Dean's face gets a little sharper, a little harder, with every empty body they encounter. When Sam prays, he isn't holding out too much hope, but the little spark that's there isn't nearly enough to counter the rising dark behind his eyes, the deep and paralyzing fear that stills him when his visions bring him back—back to—

"There's this cage," Sam says to Sully, and he'd thought vocalizing it would make him feel better, but God, it just makes it worse.

Sully gives all of his attention to Sam, as he always used to do. "Ever think," he says, serious, "about running away anymore?"

Sam's been trying hard not to cry, though it's not like Sully would care. That brings him up short. He's been so scared, for weeks now, but he's never quite thought about it like that before. He's run away so many times. When he was little and frightened of their dad (and more frightened of the loss of him, enough that cutting off ties first seemed like a good idea); when he'd been so stifled and scared of losing himself that college had seemed like the only possible escape; time after time after that, through years of hunting and blood and fear and watching Dean's eyes change, running from the gut-shot of Dean's loss, running from his disappointment, running headlong toward God and death if only it would make his bleak, worthless life just end. He'd felt that way so long he'd never given any thought to the idea that one day he wouldn't.

"Not in a while," Sam says, and realizes it's the truth. "Not anymore."

Sully gives him that steady regard, folds his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows, like, see? It's a shock to the system. For the first time in a very, very long time, Sam thinks there might be solid ground under his feet.

Dean refuses to discuss the cage, and frankly Sam can't blame him. Way back, Dean had been able to talk about what had happened to him in hell (haltingly, but he'd done it, even if all it did was make Sam's stomach turn over and reduce Dean down to ugly, helpless tears). Sam's never quite been able to talk to Dean about his own stint downstairs. Dean knows some of it, of course—Sam's period of pretty spectacular insanity hadn't left a lot of room for secrecy—but there are still things that Sam's never told him. Things Sam won't ever tell anyone.

Now, when Sam prays, he makes sure his bedroom door is closed. The bunker is coffin-silent around him and he puts his forehead against his tangled-together hands, but he doesn't know what to say to God beyond the bedrock-constant please, please, please.

Lucifer. Sam had always wondered why his name was different from those of his brothers. During one of many nights he couldn't sleep, he'd sat up and catalogued angels. Raphael, "healed by God;" Gabriel, "strength of God;" Michael, "he who is like God." Lucifer is nothing to do with God; it means light-bearer. When Venus rises, bright in the dawn sky even despite the sun, it is lucifer; the striking of a match, when it scrapes down to the quick and that dark sulfurous smell sullies the air, the instant when physics staggers and solid matter turns to burning light—that's lucifer. Sam knows this, because Lucifer told him.

He opens his eyes against his clenched fists and sucks in a quivery breath, then shoves up to his feet. Down the hall, he finds Dean's door half-cracked but Dean's not in there; the kitchen and library and garage are empty, too, and he stands in the too-bright artificial light and is, for a second, terrified, but then he hears the rush of pipes and lets out a breath.

The Letters' shower room is surprisingly large, considering that Sam's pretty sure no more than ten men ever lived here at one time. A little expression of hope, maybe, that their organization would get stronger, would live on, rather than being reduced to two solitary legacies who could barely scratch the edges of the knowledge they'd left behind.

When he pushes the door open it swings silently, because one of Dean's home-maintenance projects had been going through and greasing every internal door's hinges until they whispered against each other like they were brand-new. (When Sam asked why he wouldn't oil out the ear-splitting creak in the Impala's doors, he'd been summarily ignored.) There are a dozen showerheads, spaced evenly and wide-open. Like a locker room, or a prison. Dean's standing under the shower third from the left, head bent so the spray hits the back of his neck, arms braced solidly against the tile wall. As with every other public space in the bunker, the room's full of light, so there's nothing to hide the view of all that skin, pale from a lack of sun. Sam hangs back in the doorway, watches the water run over Dean's shoulders and back, watches it slide over the sweet, familiar curve of his ass.

Sam doesn't remember a lot about being soulless. At the time, his real self had been locked deep in the cage with Lucifer and Michael and had considerably more to worry about—but still, once the wall came down and he'd gotten himself stitched back together again, there are some things about his time as an empty husk that stood out. It had surprised him to learn that, in his own way, his soulless self had still cared for Dean, at least at first. Maybe he'd just been running on autopilot, the habit of years forcing itself in when real emotion wasn't there to ensure it, but he'd thought leaving Dean with Lisa was a kindness, then. When their relationship failed he wasn't exactly disappointed, of course, but at the time he hadn't been able to understand why; he didn't get how Dean and Sam, the real Sam, were pulled together, tangled irrevocably, even if Sam no longer deserved Dean's devotion.

He'd made a pass at Dean exactly once. It was after the debacle when he'd let Dean be turned into a vampire, but before they'd found out just how empty Sam really was. A little town somewhere in Illinois; a little rat-hole of a motel, cheaper even than their usual, and Sam had been restless, had wanted to kill something and fuck something, not necessarily in that order. Dean had been barely recovered from the vampiric cure, but it made him lovelier, somehow, and Sam had been almost ravenous watching his pale face, the shadows dark under his eyes as he bitched about something or other, shaken and trying to hide it. He'd stepped close and put his hand on Dean's throat, thinking only of Dean's mouth on his dick, of how sweet and tight and trembling he would be, and Dean had met his eyes and said Sam, what—but he knew, of course he knew, and he froze, rigid and unwilling. It still turns Sam's stomach that the only thing that stopped him from taking what he wanted was that it would have been irritating and slow to have to rape Dean. So, he'd rolled his eyes, said forget it, it's not worth it, found a girl at the bar and fucked her senseless in the bathroom. He remembers thinking idly the whole time that he wished she'd had green eyes.

Dean's broader now than he was then. His stomach's a little softer, but the strength in his arms and shoulders is clear, the muscle in his thighs standing out as he shifts his weight, as he turns his face up into the spray. He reaches out to fumble for the soap in its little holder on the wall and Sam thinks for a second about leaving, he really does.

He stays put. After all these years, Dean still doesn't use a washcloth. He lathers the bar up and then runs it over his arms, into his pits, gathers foam between his hands and reaches down between his legs. Sam's mouth is dry, watching the dark shadow of his sac heavy between his thighs, watching how casual he is as he slides soapy fingers into the crack of his ass, spreading slick and white over the pale skin. It shouldn't be getting to Sam like it is. Pretty doesn't quite describe Dean, anymore. He's beautiful, of course, more beautiful than anyone else Sam's ever seen, but that edge of fragility, that vulnerability that only Sam got to see—that's hidden, now. He doesn't know if it's something he's allowed to miss.

Dean starts to massage the lather into his hair. He's safe, unaware of his audience, healthy and strong. With what might be coming, Sam doesn't know if it's a sight he'll ever see again—but, fuck it, he wants to, he wants to so badly it's making his chest ache, and he heels off his boots, starts to strip off his clothes. Dean whips around with a start when Sam's jeans and belt clatter onto the laundry table by the door, but Sam pretends not to notice. He steps up to a showerhead a few spots down from Dean, turns the tap and takes the blast of superheated water like a blow. They really do have excellent water pressure.

"You okay?" Dean says, after a minute.

It's barely audible over the water rushing in Sam's ears. He scrapes his hair back off his forehead and leans back so the water's hitting him in the chest, but when he looks over Dean's eyes are closed, hands still scrubbing at his scalp.

"Not really," Sam says. Dean's hands pause, and then he shoves his head under the tap again. Lather sluices down the planes of his chest, drips down over his still-soft dick, and Sam has to turn away, has to breathe in deep and reach for his own soap before he reaches out and pulls Dean under the stream of water with him. He's selfish, and he's a voyeur, but he's not delusional.

He washes himself clinically, doing his utmost not to make a show of it—even turns away slightly when he reaches down to take care of his own dick, a polite little pretense like Dean hadn't held it in his hand just like this, like Dean hadn't gone down on his knees and choked on it, all those years ago. This is normal—or at least, this could be normal. Just the two of them, quiet together under the thunder of the spray.

He's not-thinking so determinedly, trying just to enjoy the small bit of closeness that's sharing the same steam-filled air, that he kind of forgets to pay attention to exactly what Dean's doing. It's a jolt when he opens his eyes after rinsing out his shampoo to find Dean watching him, standing still under the unending hot water. His skin's turning an even, deep pink—the same flush he'd get when he was about to come, Sam thinks with a lurch—but he's watching Sam steadily, eyes a little narrowed but face calm. Sam fights not to cover himself like a fool, but he can feel himself thickening, a little, just from the weight of Dean's eyes on him.

Dean shuts off his showerhead and shoves a hand through his soaking hair, brushing what little fringe he has back from his face. He watches Sam for another second, then steps up close, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder under the water. "It's gonna be okay," Dean says, and this close Sam can't look anywhere but straight into his eyes, can't help but bask in the determination there. "We'll figure something out, Sammy."

How do you know, Sam wants to say. How can I possibly pay any other price for this, he wants to say, but he can't, because Dean's sliding that hand up to his neck, thumbing along his jaw, and then—and then he moves away, he turns his back on Sam and grabs a towel from the pile on the counter, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut and puts his face under the spray, and when he's sure Dean's gone he reaches down and finds his dick blood-heavy and full and he strips himself off as brutally and as quickly as possible, because he ruined the best thing he ever had and, right at this moment, he doesn't deserve even the memory of it.

Time in the cage is hard to explain. It's hellish math by any stretch of the imagination, but where Dean had known for certain how exactly real time slowed and the torment sped up, Sam's never been so sure. This isn't the real cage, though—it's just some strange, shoddy facsimile, some stop-gap that Rowena has created (and was she screwing with them the whole time, was this an accident—oh, God, please let it have been an accident, because if Dean ever finds out exactly how stupid Sam was—). Sam was in the real cage for eighteen months, almost to the day, and yet in his head the time was so magnified that it became unquantifiable.

"Sammy, I feel like you're not paying attention to me," Lucifer says, close and warm against his ear. "You know how I feel about that."

Sam flinches, hard, but he refuses to look. They've cycled through half a dozen of his memories by now, but no matter what happens, he's determined. This time, there's nothing Lucifer can do to make him say yes.

By turns, Lucifer is reasonable and demanding. He's furious, then coaxing, and then terrifyingly cold, but here's the thing: Sam has come to terms with his failures. He knows exactly what kind of monster he is.

He'd been so appalled, so violated, when he'd finally cast out Gadreel, when he'd come back to himself and found Dean watching him with that grief-stricken, closed-off face. He'd really thought, for a while there, that there were lines he wouldn't cross. That, after the excoriation of the cage, the boy who'd been ready to tear down the world to save one man was gone, that he was somehow above that. He'd held that belief close, right up until the moment he watched Metatron slide his angel blade into Dean's chest, when he met Dean's eyes and saw how they filled with that dull, helpless surprise. In that second, everything in Sam just... stopped. What a fool he was. The naive belief disappeared, and the bubbling panic that rushed into its place when his hands were stained with Dean's blood, when he watched the light leave Dean's eyes—that stayed with him, didn't ever go away. Not when he carried Dean's body to his bed and hid his face against Dean's cold, still chest; not until he was kneeling at Dean's feet, tear-sodden and making one last desperate play, willing to risk life and safety and the well-being of the planet if he could just see his brother again, untainted and whole, one more time.

"You'd do anything to save him, and he'd do anything to save you, and that is the problem!" Lucifer's so close to him—earnest again, and Sam's watching himself with the girl and the dog and the fake little life he'd tried to live, the falseness of it curdling in his throat, and Lucifer knows it, says, "Because of this! You're so overcome by guilt you can't stand to lose Dean again, and he could never lose you. And so instead of choosing the world, you choose each other, no matter how many innocent people die!"

It's blatant hypocrisy. Standing in the golden light of his memories of Texas, watching himself run his fingers through Riot's fur, he thinks, and I'd do it again, and knows it to be true.

Lucifer forgets that Sam knows him. He'd spent eighteen months in the cage—God knows how long it really was, in his head. He'd been suffused with Lucifer's presence, curled up and suffocating under the toxic weight of his grace. Lucifer's fury is the kind that would reduce humanity down to dust. Sam can still taste it, metal at the back of his tongue; can still see it in the charming, mocking curve of Lucifer's smile as he leans down over Sam, as he comes right in close so Sam can feel the cold he radiates. They'd been intertwined, had breathed through the same lungs. It's how Sam knows how much Lucifer hates Dean—how he knows that, if he ever does get out, he'll save Dean's death for last, just so he can take the time to make Sam watch him die. He's felt Dean's bones breaking under his hands before, and it's like Lucifer's forgotten.

Lucifer gets in even closer, meeting Sam's eyes steadily like the liar he is. "It's time to save the world," Lucifer says, and Sam thinks, out of nowhere, How art thou fallen from heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning. He thinks about the bunker, about the car, about the way Dean smiled at him as he put on that stupid song, and he thinks about never seeing any of it again, and he says, "No." It's worth it, a little bit, to watch that smug look fall off of Lucifer's face. He's going to pay for this, but the rightness of it—"No," he says again. He's ready to take whatever happens next.

Dean throws the main power switch at the top of the stairs and the bunker lights start to hum to life around them. Following Dean down into the war room hurts a little. Lucifer threw Sam against the cage bars a couple of times, so the stretch of pain down his back as he follows Dean down the steps, that must be some pretty impressive bruising. He's trying not to think about—well, about anything really, but right this second he's avoiding the knowledge that soon he'll have to get into bed, which will involve taking off his coat and shirts, bending down to get his boots off.

He's just at the bottom step, thinking about whether he can just cut his clothes off and not deal with them again, when he notices that Dean isn't moving, in front of him. "Dean?" he says, voice a half-wrecked croak, and Dean turns around and seizes his coat, yanks him into a tight hug.

"Ow," Sam says, faintly, but he hugs Dean right back because—because of course he does, even if oh God this hurts, enough that he wonders if he might have a cracked rib, to boot.

The lights have finally stopped humming and the bunker is warm and bright. Such a contrast with the cage, some distant part of Sam notes, and he clenches his fist in the back of Dean's jacket, bends his head down so he can hide his face in the solidity of his shoulder.

"I didn't know where you were." It's a low mutter against Sam's neck. Dean's breath is hot through his shirt. "You went without me, Sammy."

Sam nods, keeps his eyes closed. "It was stupid," he says, with a mortifying tremor, and he sniffs hard, pushes himself back a little. Dean keeps hold of his jacket, though, gives him only a few inches' distance. This close, there's no room to ignore how strained Dean's face is, how tired his eyes are, how he's bitten his lips to a chapped, angry red. The bruise on his cheekbone where Lucifer knocked him down is already spreading in dark, horrible purple. "I'm sorry," Sam blurts out. "I can't believe I thought—"

Dean shakes his head, then shakes him a little, knuckles sharp against Sam's chest. "That doesn't matter now," he says, and his voice is stronger, his eyes steady on Sam's. "Okay? I got you back and we're gonna figure this whole thing out. I swear we will."

How do you know, Sam wants to say, but he just nods, because if he talks right now he's afraid the lump in his throat might start him crying.

"But, Sammy," Dean says, then pauses. He unclenches one hand from Sam's jacket, reaches up to touch the scabbed cut by Sam's eye. Sam flinches, can't help it, and Dean cups the back of his neck instead, holds him in place. "You can't ever do that again, okay? No matter what someone's telling you. You call me first, if you can't wait."

It's been a while since Sam's had to endure that pleading note in his brother's voice and he's nodding before Dean even stops talking. "Yeah," he says, and he sounds all thick and clogged but he forces though it. "Yeah, I promise, Dean."

"Okay." Dean stares up at him for another few seconds, then looks down, resettles his jacket. When he looks back up at Sam he's trying to smile. "You think you can eat something?"

Later, he's sitting on the edge of his bed—boots successfully wrestled off, but he's not even going to try with his t-shirt—half a bowl of chili going cold on the desk, thinking about how he should lay down and try to sleep. He's been thinking that for about fifteen minutes when there's a knock on his door.

"Yeah," he says, and Dean pops his head in.

"Figured you'd still be awake," he says, mostly casually. He's wearing pajama pants and a washed-to-death t-shirt, feet bare on the concrete floor. He jerks his head at the television. "Thought we could watch some crappy TV, a la Cas."

He's watching Sam carefully, for all the lightness in his voice. "You say that like someone who's never watched six hours of Doctor Sexy in a row," Sam says, after a moment.

"Hey, I stand by that show," Dean says, indignant, and Sam smiles despite himself, pats the other side of the bed. He starts to shuffle back toward the headboard, but firm hands catch his shoulders, the pillow appearing behind him so he can lay back without hurting his bruises too much. "Dude's a good doctor," Dean continues, and Sam closes his eyes, lets Dean fluff the pillow beneath him. "Plus, cowboy boots."

"Can't forget the cowboy boots," Sam says, and Dean settles in next to him, close enough that his heat seeps into Sam's side.

Sam's got the lamp on Dean's side of the bed turned on and the light is filtering gently in through his closed eyes. His room never gets totally dark because of the grille at the top of his door, but still, he doesn't know if he can handle too much shadow right now. Dean's flipping through options on Netflix next to him, providing running commentary just loud enough that Sam can pay attention to that instead of the quiet inside his head. "Just pick something," Sam finally says, and Dean smacks him on the hip but settles on some show, the volume turned down low enough that Sam can barely hear it.

Sam's made a lot of mistakes in his life. He's done a lot of bad—a lot of really terrible, terrible things, actually, and not all of them for good reasons. Billie the reaper said that she wanted them to stay dead, somewhere out in the dark where they’d be stripped down to nothing, and Sam's all right with that, kind of. If she doesn't manage it, though—he wonders if he's set to go to heaven or to hell. Dean chuckles at something on the TV and shifts his weight, his arm brushing Sam's. He hopes that once it's all over Dean gets heaven. After everything he's endured, he deserves it. If they really are soulmates, though, it stands to reason that wherever Dean goes, Sam will follow and—if they really do get a heaven, if they get peace, in the afterlife if nowhere else—he thinks that, here in the warm quiet of his room with his brother at his side, this moment wouldn't be a bad one to live out again.

Callused fingers touch his face and he realizes he's crying, a little. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "You're safe, Sammy," Dean says, quiet and close, and cups Sam's damp cheek in his hand. Sam feels like his chest is being crushed. "Go to sleep, little brother," he whispers, and Sam rolls onto his side, lets himself press his forehead against the warm softness of Dean's hip. A touch smooths his hair back from his face and he takes in a shuddery breath. "Go to sleep," Dean says, and Sam's surrounded by warmth and Dean's familiar, comfortable smell, and he does.

The next morning, Dean's gone when he wakes up and the bed's cold beside him, and that's typical—but despite that, something changes. Sam doesn't sleep very much or very well, hasn't in years, but even if Dean doesn't come to his bed again he's still very... present, seems like he’s trying to help. Sam doesn't know what to do with it.

It's January, suddenly, and it's snowing hard in Kansas. It's horrible outside, but still, Dean goes for runs with him in the morning, the sun barely up and sparking blindingly off the white landscape. Sam takes the lead, pretends like he's annoyed by Dean's constant bitching about the cold, the early hour, the way Sam's stride sprays snow back at him, but it's just what he needs. They get in five or so miles, usually. Long enough that Sam's muscles are humming with warmth, the ache from the cold and the late sleepless nights distant enough that he can ignore them; long enough for Dean to go quiet, so all Sam can hear is their breath coming hard together, their twinned footfalls crunching through the fresh snow. When they finish their loop around to the bunker Sam doesn't want to stop—wants to keep running, for another five miles, another ten, wants to run and run until there's nothing left of him—but Dean's there, complaining again, shoving Sam ahead of him into the shocking heat of the bunker's entryway, making him knock the snow off his shoes so he doesn't mess up this floor, Sam, who do you think is the one who cleans up in here, and Sam's kept grounded to Earth for another day.

It turns out he was only in hell for about thirty-six hours. "Got to you fast as I could," Dean says when he asks, almost defensive, but that's not the problem, of course it's not. Before he can explain, Dean's already clattering around the kitchen, starting to cook or clean or make bullets, who knows. Dean doesn't ask him about what happened while he was gone, and he guesses he's glad because it means he doesn't have to consider whether or not he's going to lie.

Sometimes, when he goes to shower after their run, Dean will join him, and that's a different kind of torture but one he's glad to suffer. For the most part, Dean's quiet, and keeps his eyes closed. He tips his face up into the water and soaks, unhurried. Sam doesn't even try not to stare. There's only so much denial he can keep up, and he figures Dean's giving him something, here. Alternatively, he might just be watching out to make sure Sam doesn't go crazy again. Sam will take it, regardless.

One night, Sam doesn't sleep at all, and finally he rolls out of bed and pads down to the library. If his brain is going to torture him he can at least retaliate by getting some work done with it. He's waiting for his laptop to boot, scrubbing his hands over his face, and he's wondering if he should take a page out of Dean's book and grab a little whiskey for—whatever, a midnight snack? Breakfast? The laptop chimes at him and he sighs, pulls his head out of his hands and glances down to check the time, and—it's January 25. He's been out of hell for almost three weeks, and he forgot Dean's birthday.

Dean finds him there later, shuffling out of his room in robe and slippers. "Morning," he mumbles, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Don't suppose you made coffee."

He's rumpled, the hair on the left side of his head flattened and ridiculous, and Sam wants to pull him down into his lap, wants to beg for—something. "Yeah," he says instead, and Dean squeezes his shoulder with a grunt of thanks, shuffles off to the kitchen. Sam watches him go, regret a solid presence in his chest.

It's not like they do anything for their birthdays. Sam's is the anniversary of too many bloody events to think about, and Dean's—well, they just never really did anything. Their dad would remember sometimes, and then there'd be a twenty dollar bill with a post-it note saying Have a good one, kiddo, and Dean would drag Sam to a diner to buy a pie, or to an arcade to play crappy games for the afternoon when they'd finished their PT. When they got older, it faded in importance even more—what was the point of a sixteenth birthday when you'd been driving for years? What was the point of a twenty-first when you'd had a fake ID from the time you could talk? It’s just a day. It shouldn’t matter.

Dean seems only marginally more awake when he comes back in, two full mugs in hand. He deposits one next to the laptop and takes his over to the sideboard, sloshes a glug of the good whiskey in and stirs it with a finger. He closes his eyes and takes a long swallow, and it strikes Sam that he looks bone-tired. He's been so wrapped up in trying to keep a lid on his own nonsense that he hasn't even thought about what might be going on in Dean's head. He didn't think he could feel guiltier than he already does, but hey—turns out there's always room for a little more.

"Snowed again last night," Sam says, after a minute.

Dean groans into his mug. "Wonderful." He's leaned up against the Etruscan mysticism shelf, deep shadows under his closed eyes.

"I was thinking we could skip the run today," Sam continues, and the relief that washes over Dean's face would be comical any other day.

"Thank God," he says, and abruptly drops down to sit in the armchair next to the sideboard, like his strings have been cut. He leans his head on one hand, coffee balanced on his stomach. He squints at Sam, brain still obviously not quite online. "What are you up to?"

Sam shrugs. "Translating Zoroastrian spellwork," he says, which is true, but also something he knows Dean has about as much interest in as—

"You could just pull your own fingernails out," Dean says, making a face. Sam smiles at him. Dean shakes his head, then drains his mug and stands back up. "Okay, fine. If we don't get the pleasure of cross-countrying through the tundra again, I'm going back to bed. Wake me up if I sleep through lunch."

He comes over and flicks the rim of Sam's still-full mug so it makes a dull ringing sound. "Don't just drink your breakfast, Sammy," he says, with a half-serious scowl, and Sam grabs his hand before he can go. Dean blinks down at him, but lets him have it, and Sam thinks of half a dozen things he could say, things he could confess or apologize for, promises he could make, but Dean doesn't need that kind of crap piled on him.

He squeezes Dean's hand, once, and then lets him go. "I'll make burgers or something," he says, finally, lamely. He looks down at the spellbook, turns a page like he's paying it any attention.

Dean's very still next to him, and Sam can't imagine what expression could be on his face but he isn't about to check. "Not in my kitchen, you won't," Dean says after a few seconds. "Just wake me up when you're hungry."

Sam nods, doesn't trust himself to say anything else. He doesn't turn around to watch Dean go.

He doesn't sleep that night, again. Dozes off a couple times, but he keeps jerking awake, Lucifer's voice in his ear, terrible things behind his eyes. It takes him a while to confirm that it's just his brain half-dreaming, and not anything darker, more familiar.

Dean's getting concerned, he can see that, but he doesn't know what to do. He's barely holding it together as it is. He doesn't want to work a case like this, isn't sure he'll be able to watch Dean's back like he's supposed to—"It's in our backyard," Dean says, with an encouraging little smile, and Sam doesn't have the heart to keep saying no. Not to Dean.

The graveyard in Oak Park is exactly like any other graveyard they've worked in. The ground's nearly frozen, still, and digging up Jake Townsend's coffin is a miserable task—made worse by the careful looks Dean keeps giving him. Like Sam's about to throw himself in front of a werewolf, or jump off a bridge. He doesn't even care, really, when Dean stops digging. He just wants to get this job done, wants to go home and crawl into his bed and sleep without Lucifer's voice scratching at his skull.

He should never have made that comment about not retiring. Doesn't matter that he thought Dean was on the same page as him—it's making this so much harder. He's fucking freezing, and it's been long enough since they dug up a grave that his hands are starting to blister, and his maybe-cracked rib is wrapping a band of pain around his chest, and Dean's trying to make jokes but they just keep falling flat, until—

"Are you okay?" Dean says, again, like if he keeps asking maybe Sam will tell the truth.

It's a surprise to both of them when Sam does. "No, I'm not, actually. Not at all."

He can't explain. There's so much that's wrong with him. Some of it Dean knows about, even, and some if it Dean has forgiven him for, but—Sam thought it was buried, gone, and yet all it takes is a minute of quiet for all his fuck-ups to come blasting back to the fore, twisting in his gut until he wants to throw up, or hit something. Both.

They burn the bones. Sam stands there over the fire, Dean quiet at his side, and he wants to feel accomplished. How are you going to fail him this time? Lucifer's voice says, in his head, and he turns away, trudges back through the cemetery to the car. He's lucky that Dean still follows.

It's almost a relief that they get called back to the retirement home the next day. "Poor Arthur," Dean says, looking grim, but Sam just feels like something's clicking into place, a mystery ready to be solved in front of them.

Eileen's a surprise. Mildred's frank appreciation of Dean isn't. While they wait for the banshee, Sam talks quietly with Eileen on one side of the room and watches the back of Dean's head while he flirts with Mildred, as he smiles at her and leans in close. It's sweet, in that way Dean can be. After everything that's happened it's a relief that Dean still has it. Sam tries to focus on Eileen, on what she's saying, but it's a lost cause when Dean stands up, when he freezes in place, when he falls to his knees and clutches at his head and everything goes right to hell.

Sam can't stop fidgeting. He's trying to read the news on his tablet in the kitchen, but he's over-aware of Dean wandering through the bunker, looking for Cas. He's gone, left one of the records rooms an absolute mess, and Sam's torn between being irritated that he'll have to put it back together and glad that it'll give him something to do. But, really, right now—

"You were right," he says to Dean, when he comes back. "Getting back on the job, it—it helped."

Dean gives him the fake-shocked eyes, but the effect's ruined a little by the split on his forehead, the swell of yet another bruise forming on his cheekbone. It’s the other side this time, at least. Sam gulps at his beer, rolls the malt along his tongue for a second, gathers up his courage.

"You know what Mildred said to me?" Dean says, looking down at his own beer.

Derailed, Sam just hmms in question.

"She said, uh," and Dean clears his throat, rolls his can between his palms. "The key to a happy life is to just... follow your heart. Do what you want to do, have your fun while you can."

Sam frowns. "Makes sense, I guess. If you can manage it."

Dean glances up at him. His eyes are so green in this light, Sam thinks, and while he's watching they narrow a little, drop back down to the table.

"I should have looked for you," Sam says, abruptly. Dean looks up again, confused. "When you were in purgatory. I should have turned over every stone, but—I didn't. I stopped. I've never forgiven myself for it." He's scoured, bloody on the inside. It's just one of the dozens of failures he's been reliving every night, and he's ready for whatever Dean has to say.

"Well, I have," Dean says, with a shrug. Sam freezes, confused in his own turn, and Dean shakes his head, a little edge of a smile on his face. "Hey, that's the past. All that matters, all that's ever mattered, is that we're together."

Sam looks down at his beer, face hot. Dean reaches out and grips his forearm with cold fingers, and when he looks back up Dean's watching him carefully. "Like Mildred said," he says. "You're with me. Right, Sammy?"

You've got to be with me, Sam hears, an echo from—from too long ago, and he swallows. "Yeah," he says. Dean looks weirdly relieved, but he's still touching Sam's arm, and it feels like absolution, a little bit, but also like Dean's trying to tell him something else.

Dean takes a deep breath, then stands. "My head's still ringing," he says, and brushes his fingers over the split on his forehead. "Think I'm gonna head to bed, maybe listen to a little music. You going to be able to sleep tonight?"

Sam shrugs, off-kilter still. "Yeah, I think so."

Dean nods, smiles at him, and when he leaves he trails his fingers over Sam's shoulder, and it's not unfamiliar but it is—god. It's been so long, and Sam doesn't know if he can interpret this right anymore.

Warren Zevon, of all things, is playing behind Dean's door when Sam finally gets up to go to bed. He slings himself onto his mattress and stares up at the ceiling for a while, listening to the whispers of music that make it down the hall, and he thinks. It's been seven years and it ended just about as badly as anything could end, but—for the first time in a very, very long time there's a little lightness under Sam's breastbone. He thinks about the look on Dean's face, how he'd been tired but how his eyes were clear and open. All that's ever mattered, Sam thinks, and turns his lamp back on, grabs his tablet, and takes a chance.

Tuesday, Sam’s jittery all day. He thinks he hides it from Dean. It was warm enough over the weekend that the snow melted and the roads are awash with a slushy cold mud—Dean took one look outside that morning and announced that Sam would be running alone, and that if he tracked in a mess Dean wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. Sam rolled his eyes like he was supposed to, left just enough mud in the entryway to make Dean curse at him like he was supposed to, but he was thinking, the whole time, about the package waiting at the post office.

At three o'clock, Sam finally works up his nerve and goes to the kitchen, says, "Hey, I'm gonna run into town, pick up some groceries."

Dean's settled at the table, midway through cleaning their shotguns, but he picks up his head at that, frowns. "I just went on Saturday."

"Yeah," Sam says. It's a serious effort to shrug, to lean casually in the doorway. "I'm just in the mood for, you know, something with a vitamin in it. Maybe even something green."

"Heresy," Dean says, but he's already shifting his attention back to the barrel of the Winchester. "Pick up some beer, and try not to splash through too many puddles on your way back."

"No promises," Sam says, and Dean waves him out, distracted.

Lebanon is an incredibly small town, small enough that Sam had seriously worried about the effect they'd have as outsiders. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that they were just that—outsiders, not anyone the townsfolk needed to worry about, and therefore no one to pay attention to. Sam heads into the supermarket as he'd said he would, nods companionably to Estelle at the register as he picks up the makings of a salad, a twelve-pack of El Sol, the Raisin Bran knock-off Dean refuses to buy because you're not eighty, Sam, come on. The post office isn't far and Sam walks it, hands stuffed in his pockets against the chilly breeze. The girl at the counter doesn't give him a second glance when he hands over the slips for his packages and he feels a little removed from himself when he takes them, when he tucks the discreet brown boxes under his arm and wishes her a nice day. On the way out of town he stops at the co-op gas station, fills up the Impala. The wind picks up a little sharper as he's standing there, waiting as the numbers on the pump tick up. He turns his back to it and finds himself looking down at the box sitting on the back seat, and his gut clenches, again, with the sheer audacity of what he's about to do.

When he parks the Impala back in their garage he takes a few minutes, sprays the mud and salt off of the hubcaps, out of the wheel wells. It's not like it'll help if this goes wrong, but it can't hurt. He takes the packages to his room as quietly as he can, hides them under his bed. With them hidden it's easier to sneak back to the garage and call out, "I'm back," to act normal as Dean comes in and takes the twelve-pack, as they put away the groceries and Dean tries to hide the cereal, says, "Oh, what, were they out of Metamucil?" Sam swipes it back, puts it on the highest shelf, and Dean grins at him, bright and open, and Sam thinks, what if I ruin this, but he's already made his choice and he's not going to go back.

Sam has his salad for dinner, and Dean makes mac and cheese, the real kind. They eat quietly in the library, Dean dicking around on the laptop and Sam pretending that he's reading his notes on fire magic that invokes Ahura Mazda. It's almost nine o'clock when Dean shoves back from the table and drains his beer.

"I'll get the dishes," Sam says, aiming for casual.

Dean frowns at him for a second, but shrugs and stands up, stretching a little. "Be my guest. I'm gonna shower. See if you can find something worth watching, since there apparently isn't anything worth hunting."

"Sure," Sam says, and he leans back and watches Dean walk down into the hall, waits until he hears the rush of water in the pipes. He leaves their plates right where they are, heads directly to his room and pulls the boxes out from under the bed.

The thing about never celebrating birthdays is that he never really got good at wrapping presents. He'd tried, for Jess, but a gift bag was about the best he could usually do. Anyway, this isn't quite a present, even if the pretext is there. It could be called an apology, but it's too selfish for that. The bottle of scotch is a good one, aged in sherry casks until it's sweeter than bourbon; the album's new, still wrapped in plastic, and Sam's hoping Dean will smile when he sees it. The other thing... Sam folds them carefully, wraps them in the pale blue tissue paper that they came in, and when he packs the box he puts them right at the bottom, stacks the album and bottle on top. He feels nearly calm when he closes the whole thing up, tapes up the lid and takes it into Dean's room, when he places it on the end of his bed, but then he pauses for a second.

Dean's got one of his lamps on. It casts shadows that fill the corners of the room, that bring the blades and guns on the walls into sharp relief. The room would be harsh if it weren't for the little touches of Dean that Sam can make out, almost hidden—their dad's journal, old but well-kept; the creased picture of Dean and their mom. Propped against the lamp is a picture of the two of them that Bobby took, laughing at something Sam can't remember on some sunny day, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth, takes in a long breath through his nose. He can still hear the shower running. There's a Sharpie on Dean's desk, and Sam grabs it, doesn't overthink. Happy Belated, he scrawls over the box's lid, and leaves it there.

It's almost eleven o'clock when his door swings open, quiet on its greased hinges. The television's on, but silent, and Sam's staring at a documentary on space, something about black holes that's he's not taking in at all. He's used up most of what courage he still has getting himself here and he feels frozen, half-reclined on his crappy bed.

There's a clink of glass on wood, though, and when he forces himself to look he finds Dean standing at the desk, his back turned to Sam. He's wearing that ratty-soft charcoal henley, his pajama pants, and his hair's dry from what Sam can tell—he's been out of the shower for a while. There's a slosh of liquid and then Dean turns around, leans back against the desk, and he's—he's holding the bottle Sam ordered.

"Twenty-one years aged," Dean says, tilting the bottle so the label catches the light. He doesn't look up at Sam. "This is good stuff."

Sam's hands are clenched into fists in his jeans and he relaxes them, consciously. "A little late," he says.

Dean nods. He's pale, eyelashes a dark smudge on his cheeks as he studies the bottle. "I didn't—" He clears his throat, frowns a little. He's so lovely, Sam thinks helplessly, and then Dean says, "I didn't expect anything, you know. What we're—what we've got now, that's okay. I wasn't trying to..."

He trails off, shakes his head. Sam stands up, has to get his feet under him, and the motion makes Dean's head jerk up. His eyes are wide, the pupils spreading out dark and huge, and when Sam takes the step around to the foot of the bed Dean leans back, away from him.

Sam holds there, leaves his hands loose at his sides. "I know," he says. He wishes, distantly, that he'd planned something to say. He'd only gotten as far as the box—it didn't occur to him, somehow, that there would be a second step. "I just..."

He trails off in his own turn. Dean doesn't help—just stands there, soft-looking and still and unapproachable, and Sam would laugh if they weren't so ridiculous. So often they wait until they're spilling life-blood to say anything meaningful. He takes a deep breath, but how can he condense everything he needs to say, how can he get Dean to understand—

"You said I didn't have to apologize, about purgatory," he blurts out. Dean frowns, but Sam soldiers on, because he thinks he has it now. "Water under the bridge, right? But that's not—that's not even the first thing I think of, when I think about how much I've screwed up, how much I owe you for."

Dean's shaking his head, hands wrapped up tight around the neck of the scotch bottle, and Sam takes a step closer, wills him to understand. "I know, you said it didn't matter, but it's still there, when I look at you and I remember..."

Even now, like this, he can't say it. They never talked about it, not once. "Everything was so fucked up," Sam says, trusting that Dean will know what he means. Dean huffs a laugh, but his eyes are dark, fixed on Sam. "I should have stuck with you, trusted you, and I didn't, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean's staring at him. The bruise on his cheekbone has faded to a faint stain of yellow, barely noticeable in the low lamplight in Sam's room. The split on his forehead is just a scab now, something that'll go silvery and thin, invisible unless someone looks for it. Finally, Dean nods, mouth a serious line. Sam nods back, wordless, but something inside eases, a bruise lanced of old, poisoned blood.

"Can't believe you found an unopened copy of Night Moves," Dean says, after a few seconds, and the words are lighter but his voice isn't steady on it. His eyes drop and Sam follows the gaze to the bottle, where Dean's knuckles are whitening around the neck of it, and he thinks about the third thing in the box.

"I thought you might like it," he says, and he doesn't know how much more oblique they can get without him just hauling off and punching something.

Dean nods, but he's frowning, and Sam reaches out and pulls the bottle out of his hands. It settles to the desk with a heavy clunk. The move brought him a little closer, and he can see the glasses Dean poured, now. "Can I?" Sam says, taking one, and Dean nods, again. Sam takes a sip, because it should be savored but also because Dean's looking up at him now, and it burns a little but it's sweet, too. "You try it, it's your present," Sam says, and Dean reaches up and takes the glass immediately, downs it in a quick swallow.

Sam licks his lips, and Dean closes his eyes, but not before Sam caught the look in them. He takes the glass out of Dean's hand, Dean's fingers cold and stiff when Sam brushes them, and there's a dull flush starting to build in Dean's cheeks that Sam's pretty sure has nothing to do with booze.

"There was something else in the box," Sam says, finally, quieter than he meant to. He puts the glass on the desk behind Dean, has to lean in close to do it. Dean's breathing is speeding up, a little, and hope is a wildfire in Sam, because he can't believe— "Dean?"

That flush is spreading down Dean's neck, and Sam remembers this. Dean's eyes shudder open when Sam says his name again, but they're almost distant, his face void of expression, and Sam's mouth goes dry, because, if he's right—

"Can I see?" he says. Dean stares up at him, silent, but his hands clench into fists at his sides, and Sam can't believe he forgot. It was always this way, with Dean. He looks down into those eyes, blown out wide until they're just the thinnest rim of that pretty, pretty green, and his voice is firmer when he says, "Dean, let me see."

Dean's lips part and his shoulders hunch in a little, but his hands are moving, going to his waistband as instructed, and he pushes the pajamas a little lower, just enough so that Sam can see a flash of lace, and—God, something deep in Sam clenches tight and he lunges forward, catches Dean's face in both hands and kisses him. They crash back into the desk, Dean swaying back under Sam's weight enough that something clatters to the floor, but Sam doesn't care, because Dean's mouth surrenders under his easy as can be, and Dean's gripping his shirt in needy handfuls, and when he slides his fingers down past Dean's navel he brushes that scratchy-soft stretch of fabric, the proof that Dean wants this, somehow, despite everything.

It's been so long, but Dean tastes familiar—stupid, but true. Sam kisses him open, breathless, until he can't taste the scotch anymore and all that's left is their mingled spit, his lips buzzing and bruised-feeling. Dean kisses back, stronger than Sam remembers, but he still follows Sam's lead, still tips his head back with a strangled little noise when Sam moves to his jaw, when Sam scrapes his teeth along the straining beat of his pulse. Sam's hands slide down to his ass, grip it tight to haul Dean up against himself, where they're starting to harden up together, and that makes Dean pant, surprised, against Sam's ear.

"God, Dean," he says, up against the damp stubble of Dean's throat, and when he pulls back Dean's breathing open-mouthed, lips red and eyes heavy, and Sam can't fool around anymore. He hauls Dean's henley over his head, tosses it somewhere to the side, and he runs his hands over all that exposed skin, the heavy biceps and soft stomach he was only allowed to look at before, and then he drops to his knees, because this—this is key, here. Crazy as it is, this is thing that opens up this door for them; it’s important, for Dean, and it’s not like Sam’s complaining.

Dean's hands fist into his shirt, over his shoulders, but he's not trying to stop Sam. "Let me see," Sam says again, and Dean stares down at him, nods with his teeth in his lower lip, and Sam holds his eyes as he curls his fingers into the pajamas, as he slides them down the solid curve of Dean's thighs, but then—

He'd bought them from the first website he checked. Satiny, dark blue, like Piper's had been, because he'd been unable to get the image of Dean's hands tangled in that color out of his head—but these aren't for a girl, despite the pretty lace running along the waistband, the same lace trim that rides high over the swell of Dean's ass as Sam runs his fingers along it. Dean's dick is trapped in a sideways curve under the waistband, not quite all the way hard but getting there, and Sam closes his eyes, noses along the heat of it and soaks up the shocked burst of breath above him.

"You look so good," he says, gripping each of Dean's asscheeks in his hands, kneading slowly. He puts his mouth just under Dean's navel, licks at the tender skin there, and Dean's hips jerk. "I could suck you, like this," Sam says, looking up, and he finds Dean biting into the side of his hand, eyes squeezed shut. Something settles, deep in Sam's belly, and he pitches his voice a little lower, murmurs against wet skin. "You want to come like that, Dean? I could do it for you. You remember how that felt?"

He scrapes a nail along Dean's asscheek, under the curve of lace, and Dean jerks again, but nods, teeth releasing his hand so it can drop back to Sam's shoulder.

"But maybe," Sam says, almost dizzy, "maybe I should fuck you instead," and Dean's eyes fly open, hands fisting so tight in Sam's shirt that stitches pop, and Sam surges up to his feet, kisses Dean hard as he shoves them back toward his bed, pushing jeans and boxers down as they go.

No matter that he went with it, no matter that something in him reared up and took charge when it happened, he's never really understood this change that goes through Dean. Even back then, Dean would be his normal self, loud and annoying and competent and in charge—right up until he let Sam catch a flash of satin or silk, until Sam bared him down to it and spread him out, and then it was like everything in him went liquid, compliant.

Like now, when he falls onto his back and hauls Dean onto his lap, settles the satin-soft swell of his ass over Sam's dick—Dean goes with it, even if his eyes are huge and startled, his hands landing lightly on Sam's chest. "Look at you," Sam says, almost under his breath, and Dean's eyes squeeze shut, flush darkening as it spreads down his chest, dark enough to hide the freckles. Sam keeps one hand tight on Dean's hip over the lace waistband of the panties, runs the other up Dean's stomach, brushes over one tight nipple, slides up his throat and then pushes two fingers into Dean's mouth, deep and all at once, and Dean lets him, nearly automatic, wraps his tongue around the pads of them and keeps his lips soft and compliant around the knuckles, and Sam could just die like this, he really could. He pushes them in and out a few times, and Dean just lets him, lax like he used to be when he sucked Sam's dick. When he can't stand it anymore he pulls his fingers out—they emerge glistening, Dean's mouth spread open like he'd just take them back in again—and he groans, tugs Dean down into a kiss and pushes the wet down the line of Dean's spine, a trail of slick that hits the lacy band of the panties and keeps going, down over the last bump of bone until he hits home.

Dean arches into the touch, breathing hard into the kiss, and Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean's lower lip, rubs his fingers over the hole until the wet's gone, and then he fumbles for the lube in the bedside drawer, because if he doesn't do it now he might just fuck Dean dry. He pushes Dean upright again, urges him a little higher on his knees so Sam has room to work, and then he slides under the crotch of the panties, wrist brushing up against Dean's balls where they're held tight and soft against his body, fingers slipping wet and lube-slick over the perineum, circling over his hole, and his own dick just sits up and cries at the look on Dean's face, but he can be patient if he gets to have this.

"Is that good?" he says, like it's really a question. Dean doesn't say anything, just arches his back for it, and Sam's mouth waters when he sees the damp spot appearing on the front of the panties, black against the blue. They're going to be ruined by the time Sam's done.

"How long has it been?" Sam says, sliding his fingers in slow circles. Dean's hands flex on Sam's chest and he blinks at Sam, slowly, like he didn't understand. "Tell me. When was the last time?"

He strokes one thumb over the soft skin of Dean's belly, just above the lace where his dick's flirting with the edge of the fabric. Dean licks his lips, shifts a little on his knees. "About, um—five years ago," he says, in that gravel-thick voice like Sam's pulling it from his guts. "And sometimes I—with my fingers—"

God. Sam swallows against the image of that. "Five years, huh." He pushes with his middle finger, just a little, and Dean's eyes slam shut, his hips flexing. He loves making Dean talk when he's like this—loves the blush that just won't fade. "You go out and find a guy, Dean? Did you dress up for him, too?"

Dean's fingernails dig into his pecs for a second and he stiffens, but then he shakes his head. "No, we'd just—it was after that time, with the goddess of truth." He says it quiet, choked, and Sam frowns, stills his fingers. "You weren't—you weren't really back, and me and Lisa weren't—and I just wanted—he just wanted to fuck me, so—"

"Yeah," Sam says, just to stop him, and Dean relaxes, pushes back against Sam's fingers and makes a little noise in his throat, but Sam's still stuck on what he said. After they killed Veritas, that was when they'd found out that Sam's soul was still stuck in the cage—after Sam had almost fucked Dean, casual even after all that had happened between them—and Dean had been alone, no brother and no girl to help hold him together, and he'd gone out and found a guy, some random guy, and— "He didn't know what he was getting," Sam says, leaning up abruptly. Dean sways back, but Sam holds him in place with an arm around his waist, lays sloppy kisses on his collarbone, his throat. "That guy, he didn't get you, did he? Not all the way, not like I do."

He hopes it's a statement, not a plea. Dean shudders, satin-covered dick pressed up tight to Sam's stomach, and Sam finally lets one finger shove all the way in, breaking through the ring of muscle in one solid push.

Dean groans, against the top of Sam's head, and Sam doesn't let up, starts a steady rhythm right away. He lies back down, but keeps his free hand on the back of Dean's neck so he's leaning down over Sam, so he's forced to shift his weight again. His hands are propped on Sam's chest, still, shoulders up tight and head hanging down between them, right where Sam can see his face.

"When you finger yourself, what do you think about?" Dean's hips shove down and Sam rides it, lets their dicks glance together in a brush of satin. He doesn't usually leak, but he's starting to now, smearing wet over his own stomach. Dean's so hot inside, tender, and Sam pushes in another finger, watches Dean's mouth drop open with the stretch. "Tell me."

"Oh, God," Dean says, and he rears back, breaks Sam's hold on his neck and sinks down hard onto Sam's fingers. He's started to sweat, and it's gleaming at his throat, on his stomach where the lamplight glances across his body. Sam scissors his fingers, drags forward in a beckoning motion against the soft heat until—"Fuck, fuck—" Dean groans out, hunching forward with it, and Sam grabs at his own dick, squeezes the base tight and vicious.

"Tell me, Dean," he says again, and his voice is so much calmer than he feels, but Dean braces over him again, rocks with his fingers and answers, like he's being forced to it, says, "I think about getting fucked, I think about—when you fucked me over the trunk at that campsite, or—oh, God—that time, when you put your fingers in, too, and—" but he cuts off with a groan when Sam yanks his hand away, hips rocking while Sam slicks himself up, until Sam drags him down into a kiss, wet hand guiding himself into place, pushing, shoving Dean down onto his dick in a tight drag of muscle, faster than he'd meant to because, yes, he remembers all of that, too.

"Jesus, you feel good," Sam says, and fuck is it true. Fucking Dean feels like nothing else in the world—Dean grunts when Sam's seated, deep in his chest, and he's heavy on Sam, dick pressing into Sam's stomach like iron. The lace edging on the panties tickles against Sam's dick as he shifts his hips, flexing deep into Dean again on half a thrust, and Dean breathes hard against his jaw, face tucked down where Sam can't see. But, no—that won't do, not at all, and Sam slides his hands up Dean's sides, forces him to sit upright on his knees. It makes Dean sink back onto his dick and he almost yelps, rises halfway off for a second before he settles down again, deep, and Sam feels like his balls are going to explode. "That's it," he says, almost breathless, "can you ride me like that, Dean, can you get yourself off like that, let me see, I want you to—" and Dean groans, he spreads his hands out on Sam's chest and he rises up, the muscles in his thighs heavy and straining, and the rhythm he works up is shaky, but he does it, like Sam told him to.

Sam braces his feet, rocks up to meet Dean every time he falls, but it's uncoordinated, messy, and fuck, it feels so good. He spreads his hands out over Dean's ass, feels the cheeks bounce when he fucks up hard, when Dean drops down with a slap of skin. The crotch of the panties is sodden with lube, and Sam runs his fingers down from where he's splitting Dean open, over the twisted wet crumple of the lace where it’s shoved aside, reaches around to the tucked up package of Dean's balls, watches Dean's face as he runs a firm touch over them, as he makes Dean gasp with it.

"Sammy," Dean gets out, almost a whisper, at odds with how hard he's riding Sam's dick. It hits Sam in the gut, that nickname, always has when they're doing this, and he fumbles for Dean's right hand, drags it down to Dean's crotch and shoves it into his panties, wraps it around his dick.

"Come on," Sam says, "come on, Dean," and the noise Dean lets out is almost a sob, arm flexing as he works at himself, knuckles straining through the satin, the waistband cutting into his hips where Sam's holding onto him, helping as he bounces faster, as his thighs shake and his stomach tenses, and his face—

He shoots over his knuckles, spills onto Sam's stomach, white seeping into the blue satin and staining it instantly black, and he goes slack, barely catches himself with his left hand on Sam's chest, but his ass is clenching, tight, and Sam can't stand it any longer. He wraps an arm around Dean's waist and flips them, dick yanking out so fast that Dean cries out, but then Sam hauls him up to his knees and sinks back in, fucks in hard enough that Dean has to brace on an elbow to stop himself sliding into the headboard, and Sam can't even feel bad about that because Dean's still pushing back for him, he's reaching back and pulling his panties aside so Sam can get in easier. Sam leans forward and puts his mouth to the back of Dean's neck and hammers home, wilder than he's ever been, their thighs slapping together painfully, and he's making some kind of sound, but it's not any louder than the high, hurt noises Dean's making. When he comes he's almost surprised by it, balls unloading like a punch. He grinds in deep, dick flexing, makes Dean gasp. He hold there, rolls his forehead against Dean's sweaty shoulder, until he's too sensitive to stay inside anymore and he has to pull out, flinching as the sticky length drags against wet lace, the slick insides of Dean's thighs. Dean's shaking, but he stays right there on his knees. His fingers have gone lax where they're holding the panties aside, just enough to see the wreck Sam's made of him and Sam tries to catch his breath, but there's no hope for it. He turns Dean over between his knees with shaky hands, rolls him onto his back and nudges his arm away from his face so Sam can see the wet tracks spilling down his temples, and then there's nothing for it but to kiss him, nudging his lips open as gently as he can, Dean's arms wrapping around his neck and holding tight. They roll onto their sides and Dean slings his leg over Sam's hip, still shaking as Sam slips two fingers into the crack of his ass, as he flattens them over the wet satin to hold in the slick mess spilling there.

When Sam wakes up, the lamp on the other side of the bed is on and there's music playing, off in the distance.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he hears, and he hates that sentence so much, but he opens his eyes anyway to find Dean, tucked into the comma of Sam's body but sitting upright, looking down at him.

He leans his elbow onto Sam's hip, swings his leg where it's dangling off the bed. "How is your bed even smaller than mine?" Dean says.

Sam drags a hand over his face. He's still naked, the sheet barely pulled over his hips, but Dean's wearing a t-shirt, boxer-briefs, and Sam isn't really sure what's going on. "Two six-foot-plus guys in it doesn't help," he says, and he could literally kill something for a glass of water, but then one appears in front of him. He gulps half of it down, grateful, and then shifts back a little, leaned up on the single pillow so he's not flat out for this.

"And it's a piece of crap," Dean continues, like Sam hadn't spoken. "I'm surprised you can walk after sleeping on a concrete slab every night.”

Sam puts the glass of water on the bedside table, then looks up at Dean. Despite the light attitude, his lips are slightly swollen, and that posture with the tucked up leg, leaning on Sam, that's keeping his weight off his ass. Sam licks his dry lips, tries to figure out something to say.

"After we let Lucifer out of the cage, I was really messed up," Dean says, abruptly. Sam stiffens, but Dean doesn't—he reaches out and grabs a glass of what must be the scotch Sam gave him, if the smell of peat and sugar's anything to go by, and he drains it in two swallows, but he's not awkward about it. He swirls the empty glass in his hand, tilts the crystal so it catches the lamplight. "I thought you'd given up on everything we stood for, and that I'd screwed up everything by not trying harder to stop you, and that the world was going to end no matter what we did. I was just—really messed up, man," he says, voice getting a little thick, and he shakes his head, looks down.

Sam reaches out one hand, brushes the bare warm curve of Dean's knee, and it makes Dean look back up at him. "You keep telling me about all this crap you have to apologize for, and I guess I get it, you don't want me to, uh, 'dismiss your feelings' or whatever." Sam raises his eyebrows and Dean's mouth twitches into a smile. "Yeah, like that. But, Sammy," he says, and he catches Sam's hand on his knee, holds it tight. "All that crap that happened, it never changed anything, not really. Not with us."

Sam sits up a little more, frowning. "I'm pretty sure a few things changed," he says, with a wave that encompasses his nakedness, Dean on the bed with him, the smell of sex that hasn't quite left the room.

Dean's shaking his head before Sam even finishes. "No, I mean—" He bites his lip, stares at Sam for a second. "Whenever we've fucked up, and I mean bad—whenever something went wrong, it was because we weren't on the same page. Because we didn't trust each other, after hell or demon blood or purgatory, whatever." Sam frowns, stares down into the sheets. "But, Sammy, as soon as we trust each other again, as soon as we clear up the bad shit—we've got a pretty damn good track record."

Sam sits, looking down. The distant music changes tracks and Sam realizes it's Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, the record he got Dean. "You said—" Sam starts, and has to clear his throat. "There's nothing I'd put in front of you," he quotes, and Dean flinches a little. "Did you mean that?"

Dean's voice is raw. "Yeah, I did. Even if I screwed it up." Sam looks up, finally, to find Dean watching him, eyes steady and face still. "Trust me, there's a lot of stuff I've got to apologize for, too, Sam, but—I don't want to. I don't want to be thinking like that anymore, like we're both guilty and headed to hell as soon as we punch our tickets. I don't want to die sooner rather than later, and I don't want you to want to, either."

Sam pushes himself up, fully, and when he shifts he pulls the pillow up with him. Dean stiffens, eyes dropping, and Sam looks down to find a crumpled fold of blue-black fabric, damp from being rinsed out, stuck under the pillow like a secret. When he looks back up Dean's flushed, but he's holding Sam's eyes.

"Like Mildred said," he says, with a shrug. "The secret to a long and happy life."

Sam's chest feels too-full, like his ribs could just crack apart. He leans forward and catches Dean's mouth, heart beating fast because—because Dean’s letting him, he’s tilting his head for Sam even like this, wide-open and soft even without a shield of silk keeping a barrier between them and their real life. "I think we ruined those," he says, when he pulls back enough to speak.

Dean licks his lips, eyes dark, but he swallows hard, gives Sam a one-sided smile. "We can get more," he offers, voice a little shaky, and Sam can't believe how brave he is, sometimes. He also can’t believe he's getting this, after so long, because even after all the stupid shit they’ve pulled, all the betrayal and lies have washed away so they’re clean. Finally. It feels like something slotting into place when they lean back together, on his rock-hard bed, and Sam wraps an arm around Dean's shoulders, lets his eyes sink closed. He sends up a little prayer of thanks, just in case someone really is listening.

"Sammy," Dean says, eventually. Sam, almost asleep again, hums a question into Dean's hair. Dean wraps cold fingers around Sam's hand where it's resting on his chest, gripping tight, and Sam frowns, wakes up a little more. "We're gonna be on the same page, right? No matter what."

"Yeah, Dean," he says, sitting up straighter, and Dean says, quiet, "I have to tell you about Amara."